


Best not leave

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A tooth rotting amount of fluff, Broken Bone, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt!Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, I'm really not sorry, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Separation anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John left an extravagant list pinned to the fridge when he left to visit his sister, Sherlock had a little trouble with number 4 however and ended up taking a little bit of a tumble much to the dismay of all involved.</p><p>In the aftermath it became clear to him just how much he needed his blogger, as if he hadn't known already.</p><p>Basically just hurt, comfort, cuddles, fluff and a bit of angst if you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best not leave

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this was posted on my joint Wattpad account but now I'm posting it here.   
> I think I did alright with this one actually.

As soon as John had slammed the cab door and it’s tyres had screeched away through London’s streets, Sherlock collapsed into his chair, folded his leg up and read the list John had left him. 

It read:

  1.  _There is food in the fridge, all your favourites, Mrs. Hudson will make sure you eat it._
  2. _Don’t blow up the flat or otherwise make it appear as if there has been an explosion._
  3. _If you’re going to put body parts in the fridge at least cover them._
  4. _Don’t hurt yourself please, don’t think you can be reckless just because I'm not there._
  5. _Get some sleep please, you cannot go an entire week without sleep._
  6. _There is a pile of blankets and my spare sweaters if you get cold._
  7. _Don’t touch my laptop._
  8. _Don’t experiment on the food._
  9. _Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson will be up to check on you._
  10. _I’ll be back on Sunday, call if it’s urgent._
  11. _Losing your phone, being bored, being angry at Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or telling me every detail of a case does not count as urgent._



Sherlock let out a little huff of fondness and amusement before letting  his creeping anxiety out in a sigh. John was gone to visit his sister for the week, apparently she’d dumped Clara again and had taken to hard liquor and partying. Little did John know that Clara had been the one to break it off and was currently waiting in the wings, biding her time to return when Harry was at her most vulnerable. John would soon find out for himself so Sherlock decided to give him the satisfaction of figuring it out all on his own.

Sherlock untangled himself from his dressing gown and loped off into the kitchen where he pinned John’s list up on the fridge before sitting down to an experiment.  Before he and John had ventured into their strange little relationship of shared beds and kind words it would have been easy for Sherlock to pass the week without the barest human interaction. Now it seemed that he was much more susceptible to human needs and desires.

He was able to pass the afternoon easy enough, texting the results of his experiment through to Lestrade, successfully proving that it was the neighbour’s cousin.

Soon enough it was dark out and the streetlights were on. Sherlock was starting to get anxious, bored, annoyed, as John would say, he was getting into a mood.

He paced the length of the room, walking straight over the coffee table and sofa before repeating the exercise. Eventually he settled down to the lasagne John had left for him, more out of obligation and boredom than hunger. He typed up the results of his experiment into his blog as he waited for the food to heat up.

After he’d eaten and washed everything away he sat in his armchair and glared at the spot John generally occupied. It wasn’t fair, he thought, it wasn’t fair that someone so ordinary and average could have such an effect on him.

Sniffing in distaste at his own thoughts he stalked off to find the mentioned jumpers and blankets.

Sherlock had taken quite a fondness to John’s jumpers, almost a substitute for company when his skull was kidnapped by Mrs Hudson and John was at the clinic.

When he returned wearing the slightly too tight garment Mrs Hudson was making tea in the kitchen. She turned to him with a sympathetic smile which he returned with an almost-glare. While Sherlock did not want her sympathy –there was no need for it –he could never truly be angry at her.

He flopped down in his chair, flicked through the pages of the book resting on the arm before throwing it with quite some skill to the coffee table. Mrs Hudson came dithering in holding the cup of tea which she handed to Sherlock with a smile, as was usual when it was only he and her he returned the smile gratefully. Mrs Hudson glanced around before perching on the edge of John’s chair.

“How are you going Sherlock?” she asks conversationally.

He raised an eyebrow in return and stated, “he’s been gone for 7 hours and a quarter hours.”

Mrs Hudson laughed fondly in return and shook her head, “so you’ve been counting?”

Mrs Hudson continued to laugh at Sherlock’s slightly affronted look. They finished their tea in silence and the older women left after checking the fridge was free of lasagne. She gave a nod of approval and a small smile, no doubt about to report her findings to John.

After another hour or two of staring blankly at the wallpaper, in which time Sherlock was actually reassessing the unsolved cases he cared not to mention, looking through his mental notes, trying to find what he missed. When this failed to bring to light any new leads he decided that it was time to bug Lestrade. Reaching his hand out across the arm of his chair he called out to John.

Assuming he was merely ignoring Sherlock again for some reason or another he continued to call out for his phone. It wasn’t until Sherlock was jolted by the sounds of Mrs Hudson pottering around downstairs that he remembered the absence of John Watson from London.  He retracted his arm from where it had rested impatiently across the arm of his chair.

With near-confused eyes he looked around again before resigning to the fact that he would have to retrieve his phone from the kitchen.

 

It turned out that no one had been murdered, which was really dreadfully dull. Lestrade replied with a rather grumpy text berating him for the time, considering it was 2 in the morning, and promising to come over in the morning. It was another hour of pacing before Sherlock found himself staring at John’s handwriting pinned to the fridge. He scanned the list again before focusing in on number  5, “Get some sleep,” it read.

With a huff and a flourish of his dressing gown Sherlock flounced his way into his bedroom where he proceeded to stare at the ceiling until he could hear Lestrade pounding at the door.

He didn’t stay long, just long enough to survey the flat for any damage the whole time Sherlock looking somewhat smug that he hadn’t managed to screw anything up significantly.

 

The days continued in the same way until Thursday, Sherlock picking at the meals John had frozen, catching the odd nap and deducing every aspect of the crappy television Mrs Hudson put on when she made tea.

Late Thursday afternoon Lestrade texted him a case, a proper case, double homicide, no limbs found, no sign of forced entry, footprints, blood or fingerprints. It was exactly was Sherlock had been needing.

He dashed around the flat getting dressed, he had barely secured his scarf when he was bounding down the stairs. He had been trying to button up his coat as he was moving yet it seemed that it was at that point that his grace decided to fail him. He overstepped the narrow landing causing him to go flying off down the stairs head first. He managed to curl in a little, ultimately protecting his head and neck. He landed with the middle of his right forearm on the edge of the bottom step resulting in a sharp snap accompanied by an equally sharp cry. His ankle twisted slightly as his body continued to move and he ended up in the small hallway, his body spread across the floor. Instinctively he began to cradle his arm, anything to numb the harsh shock of the break.

He lay panting there, his arm beginning to ache and throb, until the initial shock had passed. Eventually he called out to Mrs Hudson whom had probably thought he was just experimenting considering that loud noises were quite common in 221B.

When the elderly woman came out to see Sherlock propped up against the banister cradling his arm to his chest she raised her hand to her mouth to smother her gasp.

“It’s fine, really,” Sherlock told her, trying to stand up in an unconscious attempt to reassure her. He only jostled his arm causing him to cry out and lower himself back down onto the stairs.

“I’ll call an ambulance!” Mrs Hudson informed him, hurrying off towards her flat.

“No, need, that will take too long,” Sherlock replied as calmly as possible. This time he took special care to not move his arm more than necessary as he stood.

“You can’t just ignore a broken bone Sherlock,” she chastised.

“I’ll catch a cab, much easier,” he replied easily, though the slight trickle of sweat that ran down his cheek as he chanced leaning on his left ankle told him that the next few hours would not go as smoothly as he’d hoped.

Mrs Hudson sighed went into her flat to retrieve her purse, an icepack and a piece of old rag which she fashioned into a sling.

Once outside Sherlock’s immediate reaction was to lift his arm to hail a cab causing the pain to once again intensify. Mrs Hudson patted his other arm and flagged down a taxi herself.

The trip to the hospital wasn’t all that long but Sherlock, despite his best efforts, couldn’t help but cringe every time the car jolted to a stop.

Once at the ER he let Mrs Hudson deal with the paperwork, preferring to examine the other injuries to try and get his mind off the sharp pains in his arm.

“Would you like me to give the inspector a call?” Mrs Hudson offered after handing the clip board back to the nurse. She was referring to the complaints Sherlock had made during their cab ride in regard to missing out on such an interesting case.

Sherlock shook himself out of his critical daze to glance at his landlady. He was about to say that he would prefer to simply text him when he looked down at his arm in the makeshift slight and reluctantly fished out his phone using his non-dominate hand.

He tried to ignore both Mrs Hudson’s struggle with the mobile and the pain of his arm by dissecting the causes of the other casualties but his brain felt strangely fuzzy and unfocused, almost like he was drugged.

Eventually he was taken into an examination room where he blanked out for a while, letting Mrs Hudson answer all the questions she was able to. Soon enough they took x-rays causing his to grit his teeth as his arm was forced into positions which just made the pain even more jarring.

They told him it was nice, clean, break, through both his Radius and Ulna, although Sherlock’s dazed brain found nothing ‘nice’ about the situation he was in. His arm hurt, his ankle hurt, his back and legs were bruised from the fall and his head was pounding away.

He wanted John back.

He had been hoping to just have a sling or a cast and be done with it but unfortunately it would need to be set first.

Mrs Hudson convinced him to let them give him pain relief through an IV while the doctor reset the break. Sherlock was not new to pain but it had been years since he had broken a bone, most of his injuries now were to the flesh. He didn’t like the searing fire through his bones as they ground back into place, he didn’t like John’s absence, he should have been there, not Mrs Hudson.

It had been almost 2 hours since his fall when the cast was finally in place, a dark blue to match his scarf Mrs Hudson told them. His arm was still jarred from the resetting process but he was feeling pleasantly numb from the drugs they’d given him.

On the way home Mrs Hudson called John, muttering something about coming home to look after his moody boyfriend. Ultimately she handed Sherlock’s mobile back to him and he held it to his ear clumsily his right arm itching to perform the familiar task.

John’s slightly resigned voice rumbled through the speaker, “how are you feeling Sherlock?”

Sherlock smiled a little, relieved to hear John’s voice again. “I’ve felt better John,” he replied. “Are you coming home?” he added as an afterthought despite the fact that he knew it was almost certain by that point –there had been little point to him leaving in the first place.

There was a sigh through the line and then a resolute, “yes, I’ll see you tonight hopefully.”

They said their goodbyes and Sherlock walked up to 221B sore but satisfied.

 

Hours later Sherlock was curled up in his arm chair in his pyjamas watching crap television, something John had suggested would keep his entertained. And it did, yelling out their mistakes was a great hobby of his, but that night he was feeling a little groggy with pain meds and not really up to his usual zeal.

Normally he’d try sleeping at this point but he was waiting for John to come home. Sure enough at roughly 11pm John came trudging up the stairs, his bag in hand. Sherlock staggered onto his feet rather uncertainly, making his way over to John who was standing in the doorway with a small and mildly concerned smile.

When Sherlock reached him he held his hand up to his faintly bruised cheek and said softly, “what did I say about not hurting yourself?”

Sherlock returned the fond smile. “I'm sorry.”

John looked surprised that he had finally managed to achieve an apology from Sherlock and staggered back a little causing Sherlock to frown.

John laughed weakly and returned to Sherlock’s personal space to carefully hug him. It was awkward, considering they had to avoid Sherlock’s arm now but it didn’t stop Sherlock hugging John to him and burying his face in John’s shoulder. It also didn’t stop John from following his caring instincts and running his hands through Sherlock’s hair, to check for injuries, he told himself.

When they pulled back John looked up at Sherlock’s tired eyes. “You can tell me all about it tomorrow,” he promised when it looked like the consulting detective would launch into the day’s events. “And I’ll tell you all about my trip, but now let’s just get you into bed.”

Sherlock nodded sleepily and let John led him to his bedroom. John eyed him warily as they climbed the stairs but Sherlock merely brushed off his worry making John smile and Sherlock smile straight back.

It hadn’t been a pleasant week for either of them, Sherlock had never known what it was like to miss someone that much, to feel like your chest was being pulled piece but piece from your chest cavity, to be scared and hurt and wanting comfort only to find it from the wrong person. Certainly he had never experienced the utter completion he had felt when John had smiled at him and held him in his arms. The tenderness, the understanding, the loyalty and intelligence, John was Sherlock’s life now. He realised that he didn’t want it any other way. He couldn’t go back to pretending to be fine by himself.

With this knowledge he let John settle him into the covers and prop his arm up with a pillow. He smiled up at John with the kind of grin which only John would ever see, the kind which broke down all the stoic walls of Sherlock Holmes and let John see just how much he was loved.

Sherlock noted how he looked like an angel in a woollen jumper, the lint and fluff glowing in the hallway light. John left with a quick kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, quickly turning off the lights downstairs and changing into the clothes from his unpacked bag.

Before he got into bed he squatted next to Sherlock’s head and pushed back his curls in a form of affection which almost made Sherlock purr. “Are you cold?” he whispered, appearing if he was taking his temperature. Sherlock nodded a little and John immediately went a pulled out one of his larger sweaters, knowing full well that Sherlock didn’t own any real, warm, sleep clothes.

With gentle movements and hushed reassurances they managed to get the sweater over his cast with only a few cringes. Sherlock always had and always will love wearing John’s clothing, it was a statement, _my blogger, his detective_ , it was also very warm which was a bonus.

Ever so carefully John slid into bed next to Sherlock, placing some of his prescription pain meds and a glass of water which he’d brought in on the bed side table. With gentle hands he pulled Sherlock’s head into his lap as he lent against wall. His clear eyes, a colour which John would only begin to describe in his more embarrassing poems hidden away on his laptop, looked up at him, a little cloudy with pain but curious none the less.

John placed the meds at his lips and Sherlock obediently took them in, his tongue lingering on John’s hand a little before it was replaced with the water.

Sherlock hummed contentedly as John configured them into a position comfortable for the both of them. Sherlock’s arm was situated on the edge of the mattress, held up with a pillow while the rest of his body was twisted to snuggle up to John’s chest. John looked down with a fond smile as the detectives sharp features burrowed into his collarbone leaving only the mess of black curls to tickle his neck.  It was a rare sign of true affection and an even rarer sign of vulnerability.

“I missed you,” Sherlock mumbled.

John couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss the mop of hair directly under his nose. “I missed you too,” he replied. “I should never have gone.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. She doesn’t needed you as much as I do,” Sherlock said haughtily.

With a chuckle which Sherlock could feel brush his scalp and a slightly tighter grip on his waist John replied, “don’t go getting all moody. You know I’ll always come back to you.”

Sherlock sniffled and his eyes peaked out from under John’s chin, shining faintly in the moonlight.

“Thank you John.”

“Wow, you should break your arm more often, it makes you nice,” John joked.

“You drugged me,” Sherlock accused in return.

“Yes, but only to get you to sleep.” John chuckled slightly, careful not to disturb Sherlock too much.

Sherlock mumbled a few more untranslatable words as John continued to talk softly to him. “Tomorrow I’ll cook us a full English breakfast, then we can decorate the flat, it’s almost Christmas you know?”

Sherlock was eased into sleep by the sounds of John mumbling on about the next day’s activities and plans for Christmas.

The last words Sherlock Holmes managed to get out before falling asleep despite the insistent ache in his arm were, “I think I love you.” They were out before his clever mind could catch them and reign them back in.

Watson smiled one last time and whispered back, “just as well,” before falling asleep to the comforting weight of his flatmate pressed to his chest.

 

 


End file.
